


Nowhere Man and the Whiskey Girl

by AceQueenKing



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Drinking & Talking, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 11:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11966091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: Chakwas and Zaeed bond over good taste in liquor, life, and Shepard.





	Nowhere Man and the Whiskey Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MalcolmInSpace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalcolmInSpace/gifts).



> This is a treat for MalcomInSpace, who is always a treat and has written many excellent ones for me over the years. =D Looking forward to seeing you in Black Emporium (hopefully)!

Karin Chakwas eyed the mercenary on her bed warily. He was sitting on one of her hospital bed but didn't look injured. He laid back in a posse that, had Karin Chakwas not known better, she would have described as seductive: his legs splayed half open in a casual yet alert stance, his arms casually posed on his thick neck. This pose highlighted the tattoos covering her neck and hands, and she was pretty sure that this was done entirely on purpose.

Karin Chakwas raised one eyebrow.

"Hello, doctor," the mercenary said. She tried to recall his name, then remembered - Zaeed. She'd met him only once in passing when he'd nodded at her in the hall after joining them on Omega. Shepard had introduced them then.

"Mr. Massani, was it?" She asked. He nodded, clearly pleased by her remembering his name. "Are you injured?"

He slipped off of her examining table, smoothing down the front of his armored pants as he did so. It was such a boyish gesture that she couldn't help but smile. "Not as such, no."

"A physical then?" She said, eying him over. He was an older man than most of the ship's crew, but older didn't mean less fit. His muscles were visible, and Chakwas couldn't help but eye his bulging bicep as he curled it around a package she hadn't noticed lying on the examining room with him. It had been behind him when she had entered, she supposed, and it wasn't as if it was anything particularly interesting: a brown paper bag, the short that could be bought at any port. It was short and small, which made it unlikely to contain medical supplies.

"Not as such, no." He strutted over to her and sat on the edge of her desk. She resisted the urge to look him over, squarely keeping eye contact. "More of a social call."

"A social call," she said, both eyebrows fully raised now. "A bit unusual, isn't it?"

"You could say." He shrugged. “But Shepard told me you were a fan of the good stuff.”

Before she could ask what he had meant by that, he presented her his paper bag with a flourish. She looked down at it, then back up at him. “A present?”

“You could say,” he said, and oh, he was smooth. Chakwas smiled a bit, pulling back the paper, and smiled more when she realized what was inside. The cool, blue light of the liquor told her immediately what it was; Serrice Iced Brandy. The _good stuff_ , indeed.

“Always appreciate a woman with a fine taste in liquor,” he said. She gestured toward a chair and he needed no further encouragement, sitting down. She could feel his eyes on her as she knocked into a cabinet with her elbow, opening it and revealing a set of shot glasses within.

“Bloody hell, you must be a whiskey girl,” he said, his tone suggesting he was clearly impressed. She smiled.

“Still have a few tricks up my sleeve,” she said, passing him the shot glasses. He didn’t need to ask if she was ready, and she appreciated that he was heavy on the pour, giving her a damn near full glass.

“You’re an interesting doc,” he said, raising his glass. “Seen a lot of medics with alcohol in the supplies, but not too many who keep their own shot glasses.”

“I like to be prepared for every situation,” she said. She knocked back her glass, closing her eyes as the cool liquid hit the back of her throat. It burned, and the cool sensation of the drink followed by the hot sensation of the alcohol was an interesting mess of contradictions, not unlike her drinking partner: cool, but surprisingly thoughtful; a merc who’d clearly lived a rough life judging by the subdermal facial implants, but also one in prime condition

Zaeed Massani, she decided, was _interesting._

“So how’s a fuckin’ fine broad like yourself wind up in Cerberus?” He leaned forward, his eyes darting to the sides of the room, no doubt checking for cameras or bugs. She had done the same but had assumed Cerberus had placed some so small she’d never find them. “Don’t think you’ve drank that humans-first bullshit kool-aid half this ship seems goin’ on about.”

“Shepard,” she said, simply. “I used to be in the Alliance, on the Normandy. Shepard was Captain there, and she’s a good sort. Needs good people.” She held out her glass and he poured, without question, once again. “And I’d follow her to hell and back.”

“You probably will,” Zaeed said, pouring his own drink and knocking it back. The brandy was already making her feel warm, but Zaeed looked as if he was barely affected. Only a dull glow in his eyes suggested that _perhaps_ he was slightly tipsy off the powerful stuff.

She held out her shot glass and asked, “And what about you? What compelled you to sign up for a mission to hell and back, Mr. Massani?”

“Zaeed.” He poured her a drink and she knocked it back. It was definitively hitting her harder, now; the biotic kick of the Serrice followed her, making her feel both weightless and relaxed. It was a feeling she’d found hard to find in the Cerberus version of Normandy, and she held out her glass again, greedy, needing to keep her buzz going.

“The money was nice, of course,” he said, pouring her another drink. “Wouldn’t be the first suicide mission I’d walked away from. Possibly I’ll get fuckin’ killed by some bug man from space, but if not...” He shrugged. “Let’s just say it’s a nice retirement package. And besides, I like your Shepard. Good commander, if not as pretty as her medical staff.”

He winked at her at that comment, and she could feel the heat that inflamed her cheeks and knew it was far more than just a chemical reaction to the alcohol in her brandy.

He then poured himself a shot and drowned it, fast, barely swallowing it. Neither of them, it seemed, were interested in saving much of the bottle – but then, they could and likely would be dead in a few weeks, and what was the point of liquor without interesting people to share it with?

“Folks like you and me don’t tend to retire,” she said, amused. She suspected they were similar there, despite the difference in their careers. His ability to bounce back from a near-fatal injury suggested that even if he was a soldier for hire, he was more than just a man going nowhere, like so many of them were – there was something that drove him, some sort of professionalism, that wouldn’t quite let him give up and retire in some opium den on Omega.

“Fuckin’ true enough,” he said, raising a glass to her. She eagerly leaned back and got another hit of the good stuff, and he followed her, chasing down his drink with another.

“You must have pretty good stories,” she said, leaning over the table and pressing her hand to his. He jerked for a second, surprised, then smiled, and his hand cupped over hers. “Want to tell me some of these stories where you were the only one left? I think we can steal some of those _terrible_ rations that Gardner calls _food_ if you want to make this a dinner date.”

“Thought you’d never bloody ask,” he said, standing. He placed a hand on her shoulder and she felt the warmth sweep through her, a bodily reaction that was more than just chemical. She purposefully slowed her walk for just a second to let him bump into her, to feel the powerful wholeness of him shift against her, the muscled arm cupping her at her side.

“On second thought,” he whispered into her ear, “we could skip the fuckin’ vorcha-grade meat and stress test one of those hospital beds.”

“Why Mr. Massani,” she said, turning around to slide her arms across his sinewy neck. “I thought you’d never ask.”


End file.
